


What if?

by Dominatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Thriller, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/Dominatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock and John had met under different circumstances?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What if?

The blonde man doesn’t tremble a bit as he slowly lets the gun sink. He knows that it was a fast death. A clean shot right between the eyes. It’s nothing personal this time. He could have made him suffer for hours as well. It would have been a lie to say that he didn’t pity it. To test the pain threshold of a man, to see how much torment he can stand before all life dies in his eyes and he solemnly consists of the wish to be killed as fast as possible...It’s a thrill, each time. Even for an experienced killer like him.

Without batting an eye he sinks on his knees next to the corpse and turns it around a bit to get to the man’s back of the head. He could have shot him from behind. But this was not his style. Additionally, it had been wanted like this.

“I want him to see his own death. Just for once he shall know what it means to feel fear.”

The voice had been cool, a little nasal and very matter-of-fact. He had given him a prospect of a good payment. One half before. As a down payment, if you want to. 10,000 £ were more than enough for such an easy order. He didn’t even have to follow his victim for long. Maybe his principal had expected more complications.

With a practised movement he slowly pulls the bullet out of the wound before he lets it drop in a small plastic bag. He never leaves back any traces. The bullet casing is already in his pocket. He will keep it – just the way he always does. It has become a bit of a ritual.

When he stands up again something cracks in his body. He sighs soundlessly. He waits for the pain to come back. Because it will. Maybe the pain ist he only thing that really drives him. One year ago he had been at a point where there had been two options: Killing himself. Or others. He has chosen the option that makes him sleep sound at night.

It calms him when he knows that there are less people in the world who could cause some catastrophe. He doesn’t care whether the people he kills are all bad. He learned in Afghanistan that there are two sides of each truth.  
His phone rings, and the noise disturbs the silence of the warehouse a lot more than the shot only a few minutes ago. Sound absorbers are the best friend of every contract killer.  
  
A short glance on the display tells him that it’s his principal. Without letting him wait any longer he raises the phone up to his ear while he stows away his gun at the familiar place – the holster at his right hip.

“Is he dead?”

There’s no greeting. No question whether it was hard. All this doesn’t count. Just the result is of importance.

“He is.”

He doesn’t know the real name of his principal. He has been recommended by a former friend from the army, because he was the best. Still is the best. When he shoots he doesn’t tremble. He doesn’t feel pain in his damn leg. When he shoots he can at least allow himself the illusion of being happy.

“Thank you very much, John. It was a pleasure to work with you.”

John nods shortly although he knows that the man at the other end of the line can’t see him. It is the habit of a soldier to accept the honouring of someone in superior rank in military.

“How was his name?” His voice is cold, seemingly uninterested. Feelings have no place in this job. His principal seems to stop short; a nondescript noise flees his lips before he clears his throat shortly.

“Is it of concern?”

“No, just...I would like to add him to my list.”

John really has a list. Some call it perverted and abnormal, but John loves to keep things tidy. The voice on the other end of the line, however, laughs.

“You’re a special man, John.”

“So?” John’s voice sounds strained; he hates it to be forced to wait for an answer longer than absolutely necessary.

“Alright. I see you’re impatient.”

This time John doesn’t say anything.

He waits, listens to his own breaths in the numb silence, and watches how a scarlet pool slowly spreads under the man’s head. It stresses the contrast between the dark hair and the almost white skin even more. The scenery is almost artistic.

He is not impatient. John has all the time in the world. Finally the voice pierces his nerves. She only says two words, and then there’s the soft click which signalises him that the line has been cut. John smiles shortly. It is the crooked grin of a man who forgot how to smile because of joy. One would rather think of a grimace than of a sign of emotion. The similarity is far bigger.

 

„So. Sherlock Holmes“he slowly repeats and looks down on the dark-haired man once again.

“A good name for a corpse.”


End file.
